The Yellow Dress
BY Smitha Peter
The line outside the charity shop moved slowly. We waited for our turn hoping to find something suitable among the donated clothes. We were an eclectic collection, differing in colour, size, shape, and ethnicity. We were more diverse than the clothes on the display. The only similarity might have been our personal histories of trauma that made us a part of this line. The clothes inside were supposed to be good; it was a thoughtful endeavour by the fashion industry. They decided to donate last season’s clothes to people in need instead of burying it in landfills. I wondered whether any of us would be suitable for the sleekness of the clothes on display.
Waiting in a line allows ample time for the mind to sink into the harshness of our reality. The ripples of uneasiness became palpable. A woman standing in the front started to argue with the volunteer. Someone had apparently tried to take her place in the line. I wondered what her story might be. Unlikely to be a pleasant one. The line offers no place for people with happy stories. I wanted to believe the beauty of the clothes I am going to wear would make me feel good.
But I was not sure. Feeling good has always been a challenge. As a child, I was often called sweet. I did not appreciate the attribute. Hiding behind a book was much better than being the centre of attention. Reading helped me to escape the chaos around me. My parents were not a happy couple. They were not happy with themselves or with each other. Their frustration came out as rage towards my siblings and me. My sad eyes in the mirror reminded me of my reality while the words in the storybooks spun magic and respite.
But the books did not shield me from a relative's affection. His love was pixie dust. I liked him more than fairy tales. At first, his touches were subtle. Then the fingers became bold. They explored my body. In the mornings, I stared at my reflection in the mirror. The eyes that stared back were empty. The relative eventually lost his interest. Predators don't stop with a single prey. I carried on with the throbbing pain from an invisible wound. Mirrors are not designed to reflect the invisible. It took me two years to talk about it. My parents listened quietly and acted as if the conversation never happened. My words were lost in the mists of their fear and prejudice. I felt powerless. It was like waiting in a long line for a relief kit.
The volunteer successfully calmed down the woman in front. He let her have the next turn. The day was getting warmer. The flies buzzed around, heralding a hot summer. I saw Ray swatting away a fly that landed on his face. He looked tired.
When Ray first mentioned this project, I cringed thinking of the dire state of my wardrobe. He must have noticed my uneasiness. Besides a few phone calls, a recommendation to get an appointment, Ray also offered to come with me. But the wait turned out to be much longer than we anticipated. Ray had to meet with his colleagues on Zoom in half an hour. The place was becoming noisy. I felt ashamed. Being a burden to the ones who cared about me had become a recurrent pattern.
I met Ray and his partner Manu through an organisation working for asylum seekers. They offered me a place to stay, a studio apartment in their backyard garden. It was a lifesaver. I was about to become homeless. But part of me remained perturbed. Being a dependent never sat well with me even from my childhood. However, I did not have a choice. I moved in with Ray and Manu the very next day.
The stay turned out to be frustrating. I wanted to form a bond with Ray and Manu. I also wanted to push them away. Every conversation between us became forced. They took me to an art gallery. The paintings on display were depicting war and violence. I called them sanitised versions. Realistic portraits would be too dirty for the viewers here. They invited me for a coffee on our way back home. There was a café nearby selling homemade cakes. They hoped I would like it. I turned down their invitation. I was afraid of holding conversations that might expose my shame. It could reveal glimpses of me that were too dirty for them to view. Ray came to talk to me later in the evening. He said I should not feel obliged to be friends with them. The resignation in his voice was evident. When he left, I went and stood under the shower. Would it be possible to wash away the dirt of my past?
Next day, I went to talk to them. They sat opposite to me listening to my broken sentences. I told them that I was hardly getting any sleep due to recurring nightmares. Fingers crawling up my thighs. A cat in a sack beaten to death. Geographical distance was never a hindrance for the demons of the past. Ray and Manu remained silent. The picture I depicted was too dirty. I was terrified to look up while waiting for them to speak. When they finally did, it was about their childhoods. They had met demons while growing up. For them too, angels existed only in storybooks. I could not remember how long that conversation lasted. But I do remember I stopped feeling dirty at some point.
The sound of Ray’s phone woke me up from my broodings. It was the call from his office. I asked him to go ahead with a smile. He did not seem to buy my cheerfulness but walked away looking for a quiet place. The front door of the charity shop opened again. A petite woman with short hair asked me to come inside. She must be another volunteer. I might have looked lost because she started to talk in a soothing voice. It was my first time to a charity shop, I said. I lost my job when the pandemic hit the city. She nodded. Her silence was more comforting than the heady optimism people often threw at me. We checked the rows of garments. Her hands, steady. Mine, shaking. She picked up a canary yellow dress. I liked the colour. Could I try it on? Her face went dim. They could not allow trials. It would not be practical with the long line of clients waiting outside. I cursed myself. For a moment I had forgotten I was a part of the line.
✷
Migration to this country was a leap of faith. I wanted to begin anew in a place away from the people and situations that left me wrecked. A student visa supplemented by part-time work promised light at the end of the tunnel. It was not meant to be so. I had two masters and a unique work profile. But the value of a migrant’s experience was much less than I expected. Survival became my priority. I became a cleaner, a carer, a waitress, anything that help me to pay the bills. Then the pandemic happened, and it took away my meagre income. It was Ray and Manu’s kindness that kept me afloat so far. But how long could this last?
I know how it feels, the volunteer patted me on the shoulder gently. I wanted to believe her. She led me to a full-length mirror and placed the dress in front of me. This would make you beautiful. I wanted to believe that too. We picked up a few more clothes—tops, dresses, and a pair of trousers. She put everything in a bag and walked me to the door. I stood at the exit struggling to find the words to thank her. She let out a sigh and hugged me. It was a surprise. The pandemic prohibited touch. It made affection a risk that could turn lethal. She did not seem to care, neither did I. I wanted to live in the beauty of that moment.
The sun was getting hotter outside. I looked around for Ray. He was sitting on the pavement of a nearby shop with his phone close to his ear. Poor Ray. It would be frustrating to decide the next week’s agenda amid the noise of a crowd. I waved at him.
On our way back home, Ray asked whether I liked the clothes. The clothes were fine. My head was not. The pandemic was getting worse. There was no hope for a job. A semester's fee was due. If I could not pay, my visa will get revoked and I would be thrown back to my past in no time. You should not waste your kindness on me. Instead of thanking Ray, I explained why designer clothes were not my cup of tea. He did not bother to comment. Ray must have seen enough of life to know not to respond to madness. When we reached home, I said bye to him and walked to the back house.
The bag of clothes felt heavy on my shoulder. I emptied it onto my bed. The garments formed a crumpled heap on the dark bedspread. A streak of yellow caught my attention. It reminded me of the warmth of a hug. I walked to the window. Bamboo leaves outside were swaying in the breeze. I thought about the day I talked to Ray and Manu. There was a window opposite to me. The leaves outside were swaying in the breeze. I could not muster the courage to look at the faces in front of me. So, I talked to the leaves about my nightmares. Was that conversation a leap of faith? Where did it end?
I noticed a movement on the dry leaves under the bamboo trees. A frog. It jumped into the water bowl Ray kept outside for the tiny creatures. A small head reappeared on the water surface. Another breeze. A strong one. It caused a small shower of dry leaves. The frog remained still in its spot. Respite. It might need this moment before the next leap. I went to the bed and picked up the yellow dress. I should put it on. At least for a short while.
✷ ✷ ✷
Smitha Peter is a Sydney-based writer originally from India. She received her MA in Science Journalism from City University London and is currently working on an autofiction book that draws from her lived experiences, entitled The Sky Turned Red. She has been developing this manuscript as part of Curiousworks' Refugee Artist Development Program.